


Quince Jelly

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:28:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anthea and Irene spend a bucolic afternoon negotiating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quince Jelly

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not really sure how or why this happened. Er.

“That Adler woman,” says Mycroft. “Bit of a loose end there, wouldn’t you say? Would you mind?”  
  
“Tying her up?”  
  
Mycroft arches a brow and his mouth turns down; his disapproval would be convincing if Anthea couldn’t see the flare of his nostrils and press of his upper lip, the same way he always looks when suppressing a smile. He says, slowly, “Not precisely what I had in mind,” then sits up straighter: Anthea’s cue to pay attention to the details of a plan.  
  


* * *

  
  
Two days later sees Anthea standing atop the hill which stretches up behind one of Mycroft’s disused holiday homes, holding her Blackberry up to the sky to send a message. The house would be perfect for a real holiday; the hills surrounding it do an admirable job of neatly tucking it away - of course there’s not a bar of signal to be had without traipsing up a slope.   
  
She frowns at the phone and worries her lower lip with her teeth, willing the message to send before the approaching black clouds reach her. She is utterly intent on her task and does not notice the footfalls behind her until-   
  
“Ms Phillips, I presume?”   
  
There is something positively Sherlockian about Irene Adler in this light; her cheekbones are cast in sharp relief and her eyes echo the sky she’s semi-silhouetted against. Anthea knows that Irene comes close to Holmeses in intelligence, but Irene uses her brain to manipulate people in wholly different ways.   
  
Anthea affects an outward calm that she’s not sure she feels. And that’s- that’s unsettling, not being sure how she feels. She could slip here so easily. But she can hold her own in the game of deception and manipulation; she does, after all, work for Mycroft Holmes.   
  
“Hello, Ms Adler. You’ve caught me unprepared,” she says, turning to face Irene. They share a smile at this and Anthea feels a tug at the calm she is projecting. For all the depth of their blue, Irene’s eyes feel like fire.   
  
“Oh, I doubt that, Ms Phillips. I did try to contact you to reschedule our meeting, but-” she glances at the phone in Anthea’s hand. “I was unsuccessful.”   
  
Anthea sucks her lower lip between her teeth for a second before answering with, “I’ve a window now, if you’d like to meet here?” - a question that doesn’t quite sound like one.   
  
She gestures to the house with her Blackberry. At the flick of her hand, the phone seems to pass through a patch of signal and the screen is suddenly furiously alight with notifications. She meets Irene’s eyes as she slips the phone into her pocket and amends her offer of an earlier meeting: “Perhaps over tea?”   
  
“Yes,” says Irene. “That was just what I had in mind.”   
  


* * *

  
  
They end up sitting on the step of the summer house at the far end of the house’s garden. Irene had produced fruit scones and quince jelly from her bag whilst Anthea brewed the tea in the kitchen (“I took the liberty,” Irene had said, “I hope you don’t mind.” - and Anthea knew she really shouldn’t read so much into Irene’s smile, but it looked so _knowing_ ; Anthea dealt with Holmeses on a daily basis, it was only natural to suspect everyone around her of knowing everything about her up to and including her jam preferences.)  
  
The rain clouds haven’t made their way to them yet and the breeze preceding them is blowing softly around the garden. Anthea avoids beginning negotiations: she pours tea over milk for herself and stirs honey into Irene’s cup; plunges a knife into a scone to separate it and spoons jelly onto each half; bites into it and watches a bumble bee being buffeted around in the wind-swept lavender bush at her feet.  
  
“So,” prompts Irene, slipping her sandals off and rolling her ankles ( _recent air travel_ ), “your boss doesn’t like the idea of me running around freely and he’s sent you to-” she pauses, sips her tea, catches a drop with her tongue, “ _deal_ with me.”  
  
Almost as if she’d planned it that way, the wind changes direction and Anthea catches the scent of Irene’s perfume. Anthea has an almost perfect memory for smells; in her mind is a catalogue of perfumes, eaux des toilettes, scores of flowers and fruits. She can discern different kinds of wood from the smell of their smoke and yet- Irene’s perfume smells _new_. It is sweet and spicy, somehow like chai tea and honey and it can’t be the tea they’re drinking ( _earl grey_ ). The smell is redolent of exotic sweets; Anthea is momentarily transported to a hotel in Singapore she spent a night in two years ago eating longan fruit and lychees and turkish delight - washing it all down with fresh coconut water. Her fingers feel exquisitely sticky at the memory and her mouth waters around scone crumbs.  
  
She swallows and turns her head to Irene. “Not his exact words, Ms Adler.”  
  
“Irene, please,” says Irene, holding up one finger. Anthea looks at their feet for a moment, then pushes her own sandals off.  
  
“Anthea.”  
  
They enter a silent negotiation of wiggling toes, sipping tea and finishing their scones. Irene runs her hand across the tops of the lavender, grasping the flowers furthest from the bee and crushing a whorl between her thumb and forefinger. Jelly slides onto Anthea’s wrist; she meets Irene’s gaze as she swipes it away with her tongue, then mouths the stickiness away. Irene inclines her head and smiles.  
  
All of a sudden - or perhaps not, time is passing strangely here - the rain comes in a heavy wash. They leave the tea things in the summer house and run back to the house, their sandals dangling from their hands. They’re under the eaves of the house in moments, but the rain is sluicing in waterfalls; Anthea leans on the door jamb and shivers in her soaked dress.  
  
Irene crowds into Anthea’s space; Anthea presses further back, pushes her palm into a patch of peeling paint. Irene’s breath is warm and her lips graze the shell of Anthea’s ear as she asks, “Do we have an... agreement?”  
  
Anthea exhales and nods. This isn’t really quite what Mycroft had in mind, but it is certainly one way to keep tabs on Irene... perhaps a way to keep her rather more  under thumb than they’d imagined.  
  
“I need to hear you say it,” says Irene, grazing Anthea’s side with her palm.  
  
Anthea leans closer. “Yes.”


End file.
